Growing up, Yuna Eastin was taught that control was everything.
At six, she learned to smile on cue. When she turned ten, she learned silence was safer than honesty. By twelve, she learnt to never outshine her sister—especially not when Elsa cried. And by twenty-five, she'd perfected the art of becoming the woman her family could parade at galas and fundraisers.
So when the wedding music began and the double doors opened on satin and roses, she didn't expect the world to end.
Until it did.
Until she saw her fiancé, David Winslow, standing at the altar with her younger sister.
Elsa.
Dressed in white. Veil down. Bouquet in hand. Her makeup could barely conceal a self-satisfied grin.
Yuna froze.
Her lungs refused to fill.
David—her David—lifted Elsa's veil like it was the most natural thing in the world. The same man who once whispered promises against Yuna's collarbone, who chose the cake, the band, the vows with her… now turned with gleaming eyes to marry someone else.
And her family—they sat clapping.
Like it wasn't a betrayal.
Like it wasn't hell.
The silence in Yuna's mind shattered. Something inside her—the last thread of poise—snapped.
She moved before she could think. Marched down the aisle like a storm wrapped in chiffon.
David turned too late.
Her hand cracked across his jaw with a sound so sharp, it silenced the crowd.
Gasps. Murmurs. Flashbulbs. Chaos.
"Yuna!" Elsa shrieked, stumbling back as David staggered.
You stole my wedding," Yuna spat, chest heaving, her voice low, vibrating with fury. "Sleeping with him behind my back wasn't enough? You had to make it a spectacle?"
Elsa's mouth dropped open. "You don't understand—"
"No. I do." Yuna's eyes were glass. "You always wanted what I had. This time, you didn't wait for leftovers. You took them fresh."
"Please don't do this here." David croaked, holding his jaw, red blooming across his cheekbone. "There are people watching."
"Oh, I hope they're watching," Yuna whispered, stepping close enough for him to feel the rage on her breath. "Because I'm done being the perfect one."
Security moved forward. Bridesmaids cried. Her mother screamed her name.
But Yuna just stood there.
Still.
Seething.
Remembering.
Flashback
It was the night of Elsa's eighth birthday. Yuna had saved up to buy her sister a pearl hair clip—cheap, but meaningful. Elsa opened it, frowned, and threw it on the floor.
Their mother didn't scold Elsa. She turned to Yuna and said, "You know your sister has finer taste than this."
Yuna never forgot the sting. Not of rejection—but of realizing she was always the one expected to give… and give… and never be enough.
Now, standing in front of the man who had shattered her and the girl who had stolen her place, that same hollow ache turned to fire.
"I hope you choke on your vows," Yuna said, her voice trembling but clear. "And I hope every lie you whispered to me haunts your new life like a ghost with perfect teeth."
And then, without looking back, she walked out.
Straight through the flower arch.
Straight into the flashing lights and the frenzy of the press.
Straight into ruin.
The police station smelled of bleach and old disappointment.
Yuna sat on a hard bench in a borrowed coat. The mascara she had already smudged beneath her eyes—like tear-streaked war paint. She held a cup of cold water. Her phone buzzed on the table—her PR team, her father, reporters—but she didn't move.
Austin, her assistant, arrived first.
"Jesus," he whispered, dropping into the seat beside her. "Yuna…"
"Don't," she rasped. "Don't say anything."
He didn't. Just slid a tissue into her hand and stared straight ahead.
Her parents came next.
Her mother wept.
Her father frowned like someone reviewing a financial loss.
"You humiliated us." Mr. Eastin said, adjusting his cufflinks. "Do you have any idea what this will do to our family name?"
Yuna looked up. "You mean the name you used to barter me into a merger?"
He stiffened.
Her mother reached out. "Sweetheart, we didn't know—"
"Don't lie to me," she said, voice hollow. "Not after this."
They took her home.
But it wasn't home anymore.
The estate swarmed with paparazzi. Headlines bloomed like poison ivy.
> HEIRESS BRAWL AT $2M WEDDING.
> BETRAYED BRIDE TURNS SAVAGE IN SOCIETY'S MOST SHOCKING CEREMONY.
> SISTER STEALS GROOM—AND SPOTLIGHT.
Austin handed her the latest press statement, but she let it fall.
"I don't care what they think."
"You have to," he whispered quietly. "They're not just watching—they're circling."
Two days passed.
Yuna barely left her room. The silence stretched, thick and oppressive.
Until her phone buzzed.
It was an unknown number.
She almost ignored it—then answered.
"Miss Eastin?"
The voice was deep. Polished. Cold.
"This is Alexander Wolfe. We haven't met. But I believe we need to."
Yuna sat up straighter. "The billionaire?"
"CEO of Wolfe International. Let's just say… your scandal has stirred some interest."
Her eyes narrowed. "Why would someone like you care?"
"Because your sister married into a family, I have an unfinished business with. And that business… just became personal."
She hesitated. "What do you want?"
"A meeting. Tonight. La Pierre. Eight o'clock. Private room."
She scoffed.
"Do you always summon people like chess pieces?"
A chuckle. Dark. Amused. "Only the ones who matter."
The line went dead.
Yuna stared at the phone, heart thudding.
"Who was that?" her mother called from the hall.
Yuna stood.
Brushed her hair back.
Steeled her voice.
"Opportunity."
Yuna walked into La Pierre like a weapon forged in velvet.
The red dress hugged her curves. Her heels sliced through the marble like daggers.
The hostess didn't ask her name. Just nodded and led her to the private suite upstairs.
And there he was.
Alexander Wolfe.
Six-foot-five. Dark suit. Whiskey in hand. Eyes like storm clouds and secrets.
"Miss Eastin," he greeted.
"Mr. Wolfe," she returned, taking the seat opposite him.
"Let's skip the pleasantries," he said. "They publicly humiliated you. I have a proposition."
She arched a brow. "Go on."
"We stage a relationship. You—society's broken angel. Me—its black-hearted billionaire. Together, we become untouchable."
Yuna laughed, bitterly. "And what do you get?"
He leaned in, voice low.
"The Eastins helped destroy my mother's company. I want revenge. And you? You're the perfect blade."
Silence pulsed.
And then—
"I'm not sleeping with you," she said.
"Of course not."
"I don't trust men."
"I don't trust women."
"Then why do this?"
He met her gaze. Unflinching. "Because I see something in you."
"What?"
He tilted his glass. "Fire."
She should've said no.
Should've run far from the man who looked at her like she was both broken glass and a battlefield.
But…
She smiled.
Fine. She said. "Let's burn the world down together."
They shook hands.
They sealed the deal.
And in the shadows outside La Pierre, someone clicked a photo.
Sent it.
With a message:
> "They think they're in control. How sweet."
That night, as Yuna lay in bed replaying everything—David's betrayal, Elsa's smirk, Alexander's eyes—her phone buzzed again.
Another unknown number.
She opened the message.
A photo of her outside La Pierre.
Taken five minutes ago.
Captioned:
> "You're prettier when you're broken."
Her blood ran cold.
The war had only begun.